


Unabridged

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Het, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small vignette about details, and why Varric doesn't give them all away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unabridged

A writer—a good writer—never misses a detail. It’s all down on parchment from the grandest escape to the most insignificant detail; like exactly what Blondie’s feathers smell like on a hot day, or the precise shade of Daisy’s eyes. Even so, just because something is written doesn’t mean it’s published. There are little hints—little pieces of storytelling that almost give it away; like how Varric somehow knows exactly how soft the bed is in Hawke’s mansion, or how he’s so certain that she sleeps on one side with her arm over her head. Those he shares, pretending that he had to interrogate Blondie to find out.

In the official story, it’s always Blondie.

In reality, truth is always sweeter than fiction.

In these pages, these unpublished, raw pages, he tells the truth, and it’s all Hawke—her eyes, her skin, the way her cheeks (both sets) fit perfectly into his big hands. Sometimes, when he’s talking up the hair on his chest, it’s only because of how much she likes to run her fingers through it, smiling and resting a head on his shoulder like they’ve got all the time in the world.

In these pages, they do. They’ve got the time for Varric to start slow, to massage her weary feet and legs until his hands cramp and he has to move on. Maybe they don’t fit together all that well when they kiss, but it doesn’t matter, nobody said they had to fit to be right for one another.  He can never seem to articulate that; how her eyes shine when he touches her, or how soft her hair is when he’s running a hand through it, undoing her robe, sliding his fingers in to feel the weight of her breast and the small, hard nub that tells him that she’s enjoying this just as much as he is.

She’ll kiss him on the nose, on the forehead, on his lips, giving him that look that makes him wonder why she seems to think he’s even half as beautiful as she is. Maybe hers is rubbing off on him. He doesn’t tell his readers that, either. They don’t get to know how smooth and soft her thighs are, or how wet she gets or how good she tastes when he’s between her legs. Those little noises she makes? The heave in her chest, the tangle of her hands in the sheets? The sweat on her forehead when her head snaps back, her legs over his shoulders? The way she says his name over, and over until he just wants to thank the Ancestors for naming him Varric just so she can say it like that?

Those are all his—all part of the story they wrote together, and he’s simply not willing to share.


End file.
